A Hero's Promise
by MissScorp
Summary: "I will never forget you, Harry Potter," Steve "Captain America" Rogers promised. And he never did. A gift!fic for nightgigjo!
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** Hello all and welcome! This story is a gift!fic for the truly fantabulous nightgigjo in celebration of her birthday!

I will apologize, this is my first foray into the Harry Potterdom. Please forgive me for any mistakes that I have made heh Also, I'm fudging the timeline a bit for this piece so you can say this is a slight AU take on whichever events you want to take as being AUed (both apply).

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The first time Harry Potter met Steve Rogers was at his cousin Dudley's sixth birthday party. Dudley had gotten upset because Harry just had to attend his special celebration. As punishment for his (supposed) crime, he'd tied Harry to a tree and left him there. Harry had been almost numb from the cold when a man had appeared from out of the mist to untie him. He'd have sunk to his knees in an unceremonious heap had the man not wrapped a supporting hand around his elbow and helped him to slowly sit upon the moist ground. The man had then crouched in front of Harry, a quiet smile curving his lips and a warmth to his eyes that soothed away the vestiges of hurt Harry allowed himself to feel for Dudley's unspeakable cruelty.

"What's your name, son?" the man inquired in a voice as soft as a midsummer rain.

"Harry Potter, sir," the six-year-old replied somberly.

"Well, Harry," the man said kindly as he wrapped him in a worn leather jacket that smelled like the summer sun and some sort of spicy, musky scent that Harry would learn years later was something called _bay rum_. "Can you tell me why you were tied to a tree?"

Embarrassed heat crept into Harry's cheeks and he glanced down at the ground before mumbling, "My cousin Dudley was upset that I was attending his birthday celebration."

"And your cousin doesn't like you I am guessing?"

Harry shook his head. "He prefers to act as if I don't exist." Then he added in a humiliated whisper, "He likes to forget that I exist."

"Well, Harry Potter," the man declared as he rose to his feet and held out one of his large hands. "_I_ know that you exist. And," he added in this rich voice that managed to settle and soothe him, "I will never forget you."

Harry glanced first at that calloused hand and then up into the man's face. He saw no hint of malice or cruelty, no indication to suggest that he was pulling Harry's leg. He slowly placed his small hand in that larger one and allowed the man to pull him to his feet.

"Thank you, sir."

A kind, but somewhat bashful smile creased the man's lips. "No need to call me, sir, Harry," he told him. "Just Steve will do."

Steve had walked him home (to the displeasure of Uncle Vernon) then, talking about inconsequential things along the way. Harry had been intrigued about his going around the world to become "acquainted with everything that had changed." He'd asked him to write (again to the displeasure of Uncle Vernon) and Steve had promised he'd "write" to him as "often as" he could.

He'd kept true to his word.

Steve Rogers sent Harry Potter one letter a month for the next nine years.


	2. Chapter 2

Harry would be just shy of his fifteenth birthday when he'd see Steve again. It had been an unnaturally hot summer in Little Whinging and he'd taken to spending the majority of it as far away from Privet Drive as he could. The sun had set a few hours before but Harry had been in no rush to return to a place that was more a prison than a home to him. He dug the toe of his worn sneaker into the dirt, watching as he upended a small beetle that went scurrying off in search of another place in which to burrow. He thought the bug to be the luckiest creature alive.

_At least it has the option to bugger off_.

Harry released an unhappy sigh into the unmoving air and lifted his head to stare out over the night shrouded drive. There was a hollow ache in the middle of his chest and a loneliness weighing more than a corner stone pressing down upon him. It'd been a while since he'd last heard from anybody-Steve, Hagrid, Sirius, Lupin, Hermoine or Ron. His being forced to return to the Dursley's for the summer, being isolated from the only world where he felt he belonged and the lack of communication from his friends had all started to take a serious toll upon Harry mentally. He'd barely been holding things together since Cedric's murder at the hands of Voldemort. He felt like a simmering volcano that was about to explode at that moment.

"You look like a fella with the weight of the world on his shoulders," he heard a familiar voice say from behind him.

Harry flipped his head around so fast that it knocked his glasses askew. He righted them before focusing upon the man standing there. Steve hadn't changed one bit. He still wore that worn leather jacket, still smelled like bay rum, still had the same warm look in those aqua colored eyes. There was some sort of ancient looking Gladiator shield strapped to his back, and Harry saw that beneath the bomber jacket he wore a navy blue uniform of sorts with a white star in the middle of his chest, but those were the only differences between the Steve of today and the one he'd met nine years ago.

"Care to talk about what's troubling you?" he asked kindly as he settled himself in the swing next to him. Harry stared at him for a few moments, not sure whether he wanted to tell him to sod off or demand to know why he'd stopped writing to him.

Curiosity eventually won out.

"I thought you had forgotten about me," he muttered crossly.

"I've never forgotten about you, Harry Potter," Steve replied in a soft, but firm voice. "In fact, I have thought of you often over the last few years. Especially after what you wrote me in your last letter."

"Why didn't you reply to my letter if you actually read it?" Harry knew he was being petulant, and quite selfish. Steve was a busy man and said he'd only try to write him as often as he could. However, there was a monster inside his head telling him how he hadn't replied because he found Harry as pathetic as everybody else did.

Steve looked taken aback at the hurt and anger that crackled in Harry's voice. "Harry, I did reply to your letter," he spoke gently and laid a comforting hand upon his quivering shoulder. "I said I was going to be in London for a few days and planned to stop in and see you, in fact. Didn't you receive it?"

"Obviously not."

And Harry knew why he hadn't received that letter. Or any other letters for that matter. Uncle Vernon and Dudley resented whenever Harry received a letter from any of the "freaks" that he tended to attract. Anger coursed through Harry. His fingers clenched upon the chain, hard enough that he could hear his bones cracking. Steve squeezed his shoulder again.

"Harry," he said quietly. "I never forgot about you. I will _never _forget about you. And," he added when Harry flicked eyes that felt like they were melting in their sockets to him, "I promise to write you everyday from now on. That way you will hopefully get at least one of my letters and know that I haven't forgotten about you."

And Steve would prove to be as good as his word.


	3. Chapter 3

The next time that Harry would see Steve would be in a television report. He, Ron and Hermoine were sitting in an all-night diner when a montage of headlines flashing across the screen of the small television the owner had on behind the counter caught his attention:

**Captain America Dead?**

Harry felt as if he'd been hit with the Cruciatus Curse_. _Every nerve in his body coiled into one tight ball. His chest felt as if one of the giants was pressing down upon it. His head throbbed, his ears buzzed and his heart beat a hard tattoo against his ribcage. _No_. It was the only thought running through his mind at that moment. _No_, Steve couldn't be dead. He couldn't be. It just wasn't possible. He forced himself to attenuate to the reporter standing there with a somber expression upon his face, listening to the damning words that left the man's mouth.

"This is Kent Brockman reporting live from outside Mount Sinai Hospital here in New York City. It was reported just a few moments ago that Steve "Captain America" Rogers has died. The legendary hero had reportedly been suffering from some type of radiation poisoning…"

Harry felt his already tilting world shift even more out of balance. His vision wavered and a lump formed in his throat that made breathing difficult. After the shock came anger. A great raging flood of anger and grief that was so terrible that he wanted to howl it to the stars. Enough was enough! He'd already lost his mum and dad, Cedric, Sirius, and Dumbledore. Now he was being forced to lose Steve too? It wasn't fair. It wasn't right. It was more than any one human being should have to bear in one lifetime.

"Harry?" he heard Hermoine asking him in a worried voice. "What is it?"

He turned to look at her and Ron. "I knew him," he managed to say. Twin expressions of shock washed over their faces.

"_You_ knew…?" There was genuine surprise in Ron's voice, on his face. "You _knew_ Captain America?"

Harry nodded. "Steve was my friend."

_And for a while he was the only one I had until I met you and Hermoine._

Hermoine's eyes watered and she reached out to set her hand gently atop his. "Oh, Harry," she said sadly. "I'm so sorry."

"Me too," he replied with only the ghost of a smile. "He was a good man."

Ron shook his head in disbelief. "I can't believe that you knew Captain America and never told me. Thought I was your best friend and all, Harry."

"You are my best friend, Ron."

"Then why didn't you ever tell me that you knew a bleeding real life superhero?"

Harry was spared from having to answer that when the door of the diner opened. The three friends all waited, holding their breaths and praying that they weren't about to be discovered by any of the Death Eaters they knew were scouring the streets for them. Harry swore he smelled the familiar scent of bay rum mixed with the summer sun. He glanced up, spotting a figure in a well-worn leather jacket and a navy baseball cap with some sort of logo on the bill. The man dropped something as he stepped passed their table and made his way up to the counter.

Harry glanced down to see what it was the man dropped. His eyes widened when he saw it was a thick manila envelope with _his_ name scrawled across the front in a familiar hand. Harry's heart began to beat erratically as he leaned down to pick the envelope up. _Could it be_...? He glanced over at the man; saw a pair of warm aqua colored eyes peering at him from beneath the brim of the cap. The face was a bit leaner then Harry remembered it being and there was silver in the blonde goatee he'd grown, but it was _definitely_ Steve. Who looked _alive_ and reasonably _well_ for a man who'd reportedly just _died_ from radiation poisoning, Harry noted.

"How?" he asked with a puzzled frown. "They just said you..."

"Died?" A slightly bashful smile creased Steve's lips. "That's what my team and I want the world to think, Harry."

"Bleeding hell," Ron breathed out as he sat there gaping at Steve. "You're..."

"Yes," Harry cut in quickly. "We know who he is, Ron." He glanced back at Steve. "Why do you want the world to think you're dead?"

"For the very same reason that you and your friends have gone off the grid," Steve told him quietly. "It's so my enemy can't see me when I come for him."

"Isn't it dangerous for you to be here then?"

"Perhaps," he spoke in those same velvety tones Harry remembered. "But when you didn't reply to any of my letters I worried that something had happened to you. So I came to make sure that you were okay."

"Oh," Harry said, feeling heat creep up into his cheeks. "Sorry..."

"Don't be," Steve replied. "I understand how difficult war is, Harry Potter. That's why I decided that if I couldn't _send_ you my letters that I'd _bring_ them to you personally. So you'd see that you aren't alone. And that I hadn't forgotten you."


	4. Chapter 4

Fenrir was closing in. Harry could smell his fetid breath as it blew across the back of his neck. He aimed his wand over his shoulder and shot a stream of scarlet fire at the sadistic madman, but knew the shot went wild when he heard someone else yelp. He stumbled, and only barely righted himself before leaping over a small outcropping of rocks he spotted at the very last second. He felt razor sharp nails brush against the hood of his sweat jacket, but Fenrir didn't get a good enough hold in which to yank Harry off his feet.

"Fumos Duo!" he heard Hermoine shout. Suddenly, the area became encased in a smoke so dense that Harry could barely see the tip of his own nose. He darted behind a rock, gasping for breath and trying to gather his scattered wits back around him.

"Harry!" He heard Hermoine trill upon his right. "Harry, where are you?"

"I'm right here, Hermoine," he panted, snatching hold of her hand a bare second before she would smack him in the face. "Are you all right?"

"Yes," he heard her reply in a stunted breath. "Yes, I'm fine."

Harry knew they were anything but fine. They were in serious trouble. He blamed himself for the fix they were in. Told himself that it was his fault that his best friends were about to be captured and quite likely killed. He knew that if Ron and Hermoine hadn't tossed their lot in with him, if they hadn't agreed to help him with fulfilling Dumbledore's mission, then they wouldn't be in this predicament now. He told himself that they'd been as careful, as cautious as they were able to be. For three months it'd worked. They'd managed to keep their heads down and stay off the radar of the Death Eaters. They'd managed to evade Voldemort's forces as they systematically searched for the Dark Lord's remaining Horcruxes. Yet one minuscule lapse had brought Greyback and his Snatchers down upon them.

"Where's Ron?" He felt more than saw Hermoine turn her head. "I thought he was right behind me."

"I'm right here," they heard Ron say. "And I can barely see my bloody hand in front of my face."

"Oh, but I can see you perfectly, Ginger," rasped a familiar voice. From the smoke appeared a big, rangy man with matted gray hair and whiskers, whose Death Eaters robes didn't seem to properly fit his thickly muscled body. He had a voice like none Harry had ever heard before; a rasping bark of a voice that had his belly churning with despair. Harry could smell a powerful mixture of dirt, sweat, and the unmistakable coppery stench of death rising off of him.

"Now, let's see who we've got," Greyback rasped. A beam of wandlight fell into his face and Greyback laughed. He gripped Harry's chin between his thumb and forefinger. His teeth, when he smiled, were sharp and pointy and yellow-stained. "Well, well, if it ain't Harry Potter himself."

The relish in his voice made Harry's skin crawl. Hermione and Ron went to raise their wands but were grabbed by figures who materialized from out of the shadows. Greyback tossed back his head and laughed, long and loud. He stopped when a roar shook the ground and lightning fractured the sky overhead. Suddenly Fenrir was yanked away by what Harry could only _assume_ was some sort of a giant. The creature's skin was the color of split-pea soup, but it was the sight of the rippling chords of muscle along the creature's arms, legs, and chest and back that had Harry gulping the most.

The Snatchers who'd come with Fenrir all aimed their wands at the hulking figure, but a whistle from overhead snagged their attentions. They all looked up at the figure floating above them in crimson and gold armor. The iron man had white light emanating from his eye holes, palms, and the bottom of his feet as well as from the center of his chest.

"Make a move, Witches of Eastwick," the man said in a slightly metallic voice. "I dare you."

"Big man in a fancy suit of armor," one of the men snarled. "You have no idea what you are dealing with."

"Uh, looks like you're re-enacting Macbeth to me. Double, double toil and trouble and all that jazz?"

"This is beyond you, muggle. Leave now and we will not harm you."

"Funny," Captain America said as he materialized from behind the green giant. To his right appeared a blonde man in a red cape with a huge hammer clutched in one hand. On his left came a man with a notched bow and a quiver of arrows on his back. A woman with long, flame colored hair followed behind them, pushing one of the other Snatchers, a man by the name of Todd in front of her. "I was just about to tell you fellas the same thing."

"Steve!" Harry cried out gratefully.

"Hello, Harry," Steve spoke warmly enough, but there was a note of steel in his voice that told Harry the legendary hero was beyond angry. "It's good to see you again."

"What..." Harry paused to take a deep breath. "What are you doing here?"

"We were just passing by when we saw that you and your friends were in trouble," was Steve's calm reply. "So we thought we'd stop and lend you a hand."

"And a Hulk," came from the man still floating in the sky. "Don't forget about Perpetually Angry Guy."

Steve frowned up at the floating man. "No wisecracks from you, Stark."

"Wouldn't dream of it, Rogers. Now can you get this show on the road and introduce us? Or did seventy years in ice cause you to forget about the niceties?"

Steve merely sighed before looking back at Harry, Ron and Hermoine and saying, "I'd like you all to meet the Avengers."

Harry found he could do nothing but stand there and grin like a blithering idiot.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: **Hello m'dears… I hope the week has been a good one for you!

I know I'm taking a few liberties with things...just bear with me and don't kill me ;)

Please, if you like this story, click the follow/favorite button! And reviews are deeply appreciated!

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"Alohomora!" Hermoine said while pointing her wand at the huge wooden door barring their way. The lock released with a loud _click_ that seemed to ricochet upon the air. The door popped open with a small, pitiful whine that covered the trio's commingled sighs of relief. Harry then yanked the door open wider before racing into the courtyard with Ron and Hermoine barely a step behind. Caisleán Gheimhridh stood at the top of a rocky cliff overlooking a wildly churning sea. This was, in Harry's opinion, a cold, cold place. A place full of secrets and lies and hate.

And _death._

Oh, yes, death, in all of its cruelty, held this castle in its long, sinewy arms. Its shadow ran deep. Cloaked by it, whispers stirred the leaves in the trees in the courtyard, swirled upon the snow covered ground; in the tangled trap of the moss vines that crawled up the glistening stone. Its breath was thick and fetid, and its eyes gleamed in the darkness holding them in its arms. A breeze stirred the air, then was gone, much like the single sigh of a lost soul trying to reach out and warn them about what dangers were ahead. It was, they knew, just one of dozens of other same such voices who were trapped inside this domicile of evil.

Spirits who desperately wanted a way out, but would never likely be granted one.

Another breath of air carried with it a scent, a sweet and heady fragrance that made Harry think of cemeteries and funerals. _Lilies, _he realized, his body shuddering as it recognized the nauseatingly sweet smell. Near the edge of the courtyard, high up in one of the trees, shadowed by snow coated limbs and thick moss, an owl hooted two warning notes. It was a gentle reminder about this being a very dark and forbidding place.

A place that would only happily welcome the addition of their souls to its cast of ghostly inhabitants.

They quickly passed through another door and found themselves in a corridor long and u-shaped. Four rooms lined the walls, each one with a heavy door closed in order to keep intruders like them from seeing what secrets were contained within. Here the darkness obscured everything. Things that were not kind played peek-a-boo with them, creeping across the creaking floor before rising up to blow their fetid breaths across the back of their necks.

"Lumos," they all spoke in unison.

Instantly beams of soft light tipped their wands and caused the things alive in the corners of the hallway to shrink back with horrified shrieks. Harry wanted desperately to call out to the man who'd he come to liberate from this castle prison, but he knew that doing so would only jeopardize the lives of everyone involved.

"What are we going to do, Harry?" Ron whispered furiously to him. "There's got to be at least a dozen rooms here."

"Split up," Harry said, already making his way down the hall. "Ron, take the rooms on the right, Hermoine the left. If you find Steve, call out."

"Right," Ron said.

Hermoine merely urged everyone, "To be careful."

The trio worked quickly, racing from door to door in search of the man wearing a faded leather bombers jacket over a suit in the colors of the Union Jack. It was Ron who called out a soft, but urgent, "here!" three minutes later.

Harry raced over to where Ron stood and peered inside the opening at the top of the metal door. Sure enough, there was Steve, facedown on a bed that he assumed to be a relic from when the castle had first been built.

"It's him." The relief in his voice was stamped upon Ron's grim-coated face. His teeth flashed white in the darkness. "It's Steve."

"Stand back," Hermoine ordered, already aiming her hand at the door.

Harry and Ron instantly did as she requested.

"Liberare!" she cried in a calm and clear voice.

Green sparks poured from her wand and flew at the door which opened with a groan. They entered the room and crossed quickly to the bed.

"Steve?" Harry called softly. "Steve, can you hear me?"

"Harry?" Steve croaked. He let out a soft groan as he slowly turned onto his right side. His eyes, when he turned them upon Harry were dazed and glassy with pain. "Harry, is that you?"

"Yes, it's me," he stated in a ridiculously happy voice, "and Ron and Hermoine. We've come to rescue you."

Steve frowned his confusion. "Rescue me?" He swept a hand over his face and took a moment to try and gather together his fragmented thoughts. "Where am I?" he finally managed to ask.

"Caisleán Gheimhridh," Hermoine spoke gently as she pushed a bottle of water into his hands. "Here, drink this. It will help."

"Caisleán Gheimhridh?" Steve murmured as he slowly sipped at the water. "What does that mean?"

"Roughly it translates to Winter Castle."

Steve nodded, saying nothing, but Harry saw the momentary flicker of hurt that entered his eyes. Before he could question him about it, however, Steve asked, "How did you even know where to find me?"

"Harry sent an owl to Mr. Stark when he stopped hearing from you," Ron told him in a voice that said he still hadn't quite managed to come to terms with the fact that he knew Steve "Captain America" Rogers. "Mr. Stark is who told us about where you were being held."

"I'm sure he appreciated having an owl drop into Stark International unannounced." Then he looked at Harry, that shy smile curving his lips. "So, you decided to come and lend _me _a hand this time, huh?"

An enraged roar splintered the silence of the night at that moment. Steve tossed a startled look at the window before looking back at the three friends who were grinning at him.

"Well, we brought a hand," Harry said slowly. "_And _a Hulk."


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: **Hello m'dears… I hope 2015 has been good to all of you! Just an FYI, but this is likely the final chapter of this story. I'm not exactly sure what I'd cover next since Harry's life after Hogwarts is largely unknown.

I'm again taking liberties with things...please don't kill me!

Please, if you like this story, click the follow/favorite button!

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Whoever thought that war was an easy solution to solving a problem between two opposing factions was a blithering idiot. As Harry stood there staring at the number of bodies that were lying in deaths' sweet repose, he couldn't help but feel that the second great magical war really hadn't been worth it. _How can war be worth it when so many good people have died?_ was his question. The answer that kept repeating in his head? _Never._

Nausea rolled greasily in his belly as he stared around the expanse of the Great Hall. There were dozens of faces-friends as well as Death Eaters that he recognized lying there. Lupin and Tonks, Collin Creevey and Lavender Brown. _Fred._ The guilt and anger mingled with horror and grief as the bile clawed its way up into his throat, and filled his mouth with burning foam. _So many dead, _was all he could think. _So many injured. And for what? What did we really accomplish with this?_

The only answer that came back was a paltry, _You stopped Voldemort._

Teddy Tonks was going to grow up without his mother and father, the Weasley's had lost a son and seen another two maimed, the Browns had lost a daughter, and it was all to stop Voldemort from achieving his end goal of being the best wizard in the world?

It wasn't worth it.

It simply _wasn't_ worth it.

Harry's fingers bunched into fists at his sides. Just thinking about everybody who had died, been injured, or otherwise had their lives changed by the war with Voldemort had raw, powerful emotions pumping through him. He was edgy, his every nerve ending feeling like it was about to shoot sparks all over. He simply felt… too much. Any second he expected the toxic spew he'd been holding back to burst from his mouth. The explosion came in one long, wretched gagging sound a few seconds later. Collapsing to his knees by the entrance into the Great Hall, he emptied what little contents were in his stomach into the remnants of a flower pot. When there was absolutely nothing left for him to throw up, he sat back, panting and wiping his sweaty face with a hand that trembled violently.

"Here," he heard that familiar voice that was always as soft as a midsummer rain say from behind him. He turned his head to the side and found himself staring at a plastic bottle full of water. The hand holding the bottle was large and calloused, as familiar with wielding a large shield as he was with his wand. _Steve? _he thought, his brow feathering with his surprise and confusion. _But... how? _How was instantly replaced by another one word question: _why?_

He found himself searching for the answer to his questions as he lifted his head and stared into that somber face. The only thing he saw, the only thing that really and truly mattered to him at that moment, was the understanding and compassion darkening the depths of those aqua colored eyes.

"Steve?" he rasped in a voice choked by smoke and unshed tears. "What are you doing here?"

"I had a feeling you might need a friend when everything was all done and over with," he replied gently. Steve crouched beside Harry and pushed the bottle of water into his still shaking hands. "Here, sip this. It will help settle your stomach."

Harry cracked the cap and took a few tentative sips before saying, "I still don't understand why you are here." He glanced over to where Ron and Hermoine stood talking with Luna and Neville. "I have friends here..."

"Yes, you do have friends here," Steve agreed with a smile. "You have excellent friends, in fact, Harry. But you've all endured the same trauma. You've fought in the same war. You've lost the same friends, teachers and classmates. You've all endured the personal hardships that war tends to deliver. So," he said on a long breath fraught with his own dark memories. "I figured having a friend who has seen a different side of war and death, who has buried more than his share of friends..."

The last ended on a throbbing sigh. There were things alive in his voice; upon his face that spoke to Harry louder than words ever could. A voice in the back of his mind subtly reminded him about how Steve was a true war hero. He'd fought in a war which had chosen _bombs_ and _tanks_ and _guns_ rather than _magic _as its weapon of choice. A war which had encompassed the entirety of the world and saw millions of people-soldiers as well as civilians die. Steve had given up seventy years of his life to that war...

_And lost his best friend, Bucky_.

The truth hitting him hurt Harry far worse than the Cruciatus Curse ever could. He understood why Steve was there at Hogwarts now. _He came because he was afraid he might have lost me_, he realized with a small tingle of shock. _And Ron and Hermoine_.

And that made perfect sense. Because Harry knew that for all his dedication to defending the world and people-all people, not just muggles- from attack, for all his bravado and courage, for all his heart and passion, Steven "Captain America" Rogers was still one thing at the root of it all: a muggle. He was allowed to be plagued by the same self-doubts Harry was. He was allowed to feel the weight of his own memories pressing in on him. He was allowed to question why he'd survived when his friend had not. He was even allowed to question what the purpose was for his being spared and wonder about why so many other people hadn't been given the same option. He was allowed to get sick of all the fighting, of all the violence, and all of the loss.

_He's allowed to fear losing someone else he cares about_...

"Steve..." he began but Steve cut him off by placing his hand on his shoulder and lightly squeezing.

"I'm okay, Harry." He glanced at him for only a second, but it was long enough for Harry to see the sheen to his eyes. "Just got lost in my own memories, I'm afraid."

Harry looked out over the bodies lying in a neat row once more. Many, like Lupin and Fred, he knew that he would never be able to forget. And that he'd never stop grieving the loss of. "It doesn't get any easier, does it?"

"No, Harry, I'm afraid that it doesn't." Harry had already suspected that was going to be the answer. "However," Steve said as he slowly stood to his feet. "I will make you one promise right here and now."

"What's that?"

"I promise I will write you one letter, every day, until the day I die."

It was, Harry knew, a Hero's Promise.


End file.
